


Hit and Miss

by alleinimmer



Series: How Did We Get Here? [6]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Brief Mentions of Blood, Endgame never happened, Gunshot Wounds, Infinity War never happened, Medical Inaccuracies, Not Steve Rogers Friendly, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Swearing, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 10:13:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19171195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alleinimmer/pseuds/alleinimmer
Summary: After finally being cleared to fight with the Avengers, Peter takes a bullet meant for Steve. Tony's less than thrilled about it.





	Hit and Miss

**Author's Note:**

> Alright guys, here we go...
> 
> As far as this story is concerned, Infinity War and beyond never happened. Instead, I'm going to pretend that at some point, the Avengers got back together, kind of worked out their differences, but things aren't the same as they used to be. Additionally, if you remember from the last story, we're going to assume that a New Accords deal has been written and signed, but is still causing some issues for the team.

Tony never realized just how loud a fucking clock of all things could be. In fact, he swears it’s the only sound that exists, and while it’s undeniably soft, a sound that’s barely there, it’s the repetitiveness of the ticking as it circles around that grates on Tony’s nerves like nails on a chalkboard. It sure as hell doesn’t help his anxiety as it bubbles dangerously close to the surface, every second the clock logs triggering a surge of adrenaline that rushes through his veins like fire. If it doesn’t throw him into a full blown panic attack, he’s going to vomit, and if he doesn’t vomit, in the very least he’s going to scream. And meanwhile, the clock ticks on and on, completely indifferent to its effect on him.

Compared to only a few hours before, when there were people screaming in all directions, and explosions sounding off every which way, when car horns were blaring and metal was shrieking as it bent and collapsed from all sides, only to be silenced by a single gunshot, the calm and quiet that Tony now finds himself in is nothing short of jarring. His ears are still ringing with the echoes of the battlefield, and he can just barely hear himself breathing, and of course the clock. God, he hates the sound. As soon as this is all over, he’s going to smash it to bits. 

His foot bounces restlessly against the tile floor, but even that seems muted, so instead he chooses to watch his leg move up and down in some desperate attempt to dispel the nervous energy that’s festering inside him. He can’t stand to look at anything else. The pale green walls of the medbay’s waiting area seem so cheerful it makes him sick. The off-white tiles flecked with gray have too much color. Even the rows of stiff-backed chairs seem far too comfortable to be allowed. As far as Tony is concerned, the only thing he should be doing is suffering, and he is suffering, to an extent. Every moment that passes is more torture than he’s ever endured before, and yet the only thing more unbearable than the fact that he’s been sitting here for hours on end with only a fucking clock to keep him company and a numb ass is the fact that beyond those doors, Peter lies with a bullet buried deep inside him. So, no, his torture doesn’t seem like enough. As far as Tony is concerned, he should be suffering more. 

Tony has no idea how much time has passed since they arrived, but it seems like a lifetime ago when the kid was laughing and cracking jokes and bad puns and movie references. He remembers at the time how he would have given anything for Peter just to shut up for five minutes, just so he could hear himself think. Now, the endotracheal tube that’s shoved down Peter’s throat while Helen Cho fishes through his open abdominal cavity does a better job silencing Peter than Tony’s annoyed glares from a few hours before. Earlier today, Tony told Peter to shut up. And now, Peter couldn’t talk if he wanted to, and might not ever talk again, and Tony has never been more disgusted with himself. 

“Sir,” FRIDAY says suddenly, and though her voice is soft, he can’t help but jerk at the unexpectedness of it. “Captain Rogers is requesting entry.”

“Permission denied,” He spits sarcastically.

“He’s insisting.”  
“I don’t care.” 

“He’s threatening to bring Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes down to override your authority.” 

He chews out a curse, then agrees, knowing Cap won't hesitate to make good on his threat. “Fine. Let him in.” 

There’s a moment of silence as FRIDAY relays the message back to Steve, and Tony inhales a single deep breath, willing himself to stay calm as the Medbay’s entry doors swing open. He refuses to look up at Steve's strong and confident approach, as he strides forward like there’s nothing in the world that can stop him. Not Tony’s earlier demands to stay the hell away from him, and certainly not bullets, if the one that missed its intended mark mere hours ago is anything to go off of. Tony hates him for it, and he swallows the scream that’s been slowly clawing its way up his throat.

“Here for an enema, Cap?” He says when the footsteps finally come to a stop just a few feet away from him. “You have to be, considering how full of shit you are.”

“I’m here because I wanted to make sure you were alright.” Steve tells him, side-stepping Tony’s dig with infuriating ease. 

“You have access to FRI’s assessment logs.” Tony reminds him. 

“Like I can trust anything she says when it regards you." Steve scoffs. His tone is calm, distant, the same one he adopts when they're on the battlefield and he has to be an objective asshole. "Besides, that’s not what I meant, and you know it.” When Tony doesn’t answer him, Steve sighs. Tries again. “Are you alright?”

“Peachy,” He says, not bothering to contain the venom in his tone. “I’ve got a few bruised ribs and six stitches in my fucking eyebrow but hey, can’t complain. I mean, it’s not like I got shot or anything.” 

“Tony-”

“You told me he was ready.” Tony snarls at him through his teeth. His hands are shaking. His heart is beating so hard he can actually feel it as it twists and contracts around itself, the blood it pumps roaring in his ears. Steve hesitates for half a second, but the look of uncertainty that flashes across face is gone before Tony can even blink, and in the next moment, it’s as if it never happened, his face completely blank as he regards Tony coolly. 

“He was ready, Tony-”

“I sat back and watched you put the kid through hell for months, Rogers,” Tony tells him, voice dangerously slow and hushed. “Months. And the only reason I allowed it was because I trusted you to be the absolute bastard that you are, and to clear him only when he reached your damn near impossible expectations.”

“Tony-”

“Which, clearly was a mistake,” Tony continued on, voice rising as he spoke, “Because after all that time and all the shit you put him through, he still managed to end up with a bullet in his chest. A bullet that was meant for you, by the way.” 

“I understand you’re angry, Tony-”

“Oh, I’m hell and gone past angry, Rogers, you can count on that.” Tony growled. “I just don’t know if I’m more pissed at you for saying the kid was ready when he clearly wasn’t or at myself for actually believing you.”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Cap said firmly, and it takes everything Tony has not to lose it at his stern tone. “I didn’t come here to fight with you, Tony. I just wanted to offer you some company while you wait.”

“Take a hint, Rogers, I don’t want your fucking company.”

“Tony, you’re clearly not okay-”

“My kid has a bullet in him.” He says, looking up at Steve for the first time. “Of course I’m not okay.”

“Which is why I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone right now.”

A beat of silence passed, and then another, as Tony processed exactly what Steve just said to him. “You didn’t really say that, did you?” He finally says, rising slowly to his feet and turning to stare incredulously at Steve. “After everything you’ve done, you think you get to pretend that you give a damn about me?”

“I’m not-”

“Bullshit! I did everything I could to keep the Avengers together and you didn’t even try! After everything we’ve been through, you were the one who threw everything away, not me! So don’t insult me by pretending like it never happened and everything’s fine between us, Rogers, ‘cause it’s not.” 

“You’re right, Tony,” Cap tells him, voice soft. “You’re right, it happened and things will never be the same. But if we want to move past this, we can’t keep dancing around it and blaming one another for it. So please, let me be here. I want to be here for you and I want to be here for the kid.”

His words were the spark that ignited a fury unlike anything he’d ever felt before, white hot and burning and drowning out all else. “You don’t get to be here for him!” He roared, rounding on Steve and advancing towards him. “You stay away from him! You hear me?! You’ve already hurt him once and you can be damn sure I won’t ever let it happen again!” 

Steve raised his arms, palms forward, almost like he was surrendering, but it was more likely he was simply placating him. “Okay,” He said softly, “Easy, Tony, I get it. I won’t go near him.” 

A part of him was surprised, pleased even, that Steve had given in so easily, that he hadn’t argued at all, that he even spared him his signature disapproving scowl. Lord knew the man had never once backed down from the chance to challenge Tony before. But that surprise was barely a pulse beneath the adrenaline that was still coursing through him, fueling the rage and terror coiled tight in his chest. He had been expecting a fight. A part of him was still expecting one. Maybe if he was being honest with himself, he wanted one. 

After everything that had happened...from the day they first met, to Germany, to the long reconciliation and all the barbs and jabs and late nights in between...it was all threatening to finally boil over, and for once, Tony was too tired and too angry to hold back anymore. Because it wasn’t him that Steve had hurt this time. Let Steve beat him verbally, emotionally, and physically all damn day; he wouldn’t break for him. For Peter, though, that was a different story. When it came to Peter, Tony had no problem blowing the status quo to hell and back. 

“You’re damn right you won’t go near him,” He hissed, pacing in front of the swinging, double doors of the medical wing, glaring daggers at the man who stood calm and easy before him. “If it wasn’t for you he wouldn’t even be here!”

“No one understands that better than I do, Tony, believe me,” Steve assured him, his eyes following Tony’s tense form. “But you have to understand that I didn’t ask him to -”

Tony kicked the underside of a nearby coffee table so hard that it flipped, scattering magazines everywhere, the crash resonating in the stillness that followed. Tony was shaking so bad that his legs could barely hold him upright, much less steady, but somehow he managed to jerk around and move back towards Steve anyway, with one hand raised and pointing at him threateningly. But rather than backing away, Steve instead raised his own arms, as though preparing to catch Tony should he stumble and fall, a flash of concern stealing over his features as he did. But Tony ignored that. If nothing else was going to happen today, he was going to make sure that Steve understood one thing and one thing only. 

“No,” Tony told him softly, “No. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to blame him. You can blame me all you want. For everything. For every damn little thing that goes wrong you can put all the blame on me. But you don’t ever get to blame the kid. You understand me? Not you. You don’t get to do that.” 

Steve didn’t answer for a moment, his eyes merely darting back and forth across Tony’s face and betraying absolutely nothing as he studied him. To Tony, the silence seemed to stretch on for a lifetime, and between the frustration of staring down one of the few people who could handle his bullshit, the overwhelming fear of not knowing how Peter was, and the deafening sound of his own boiling blood still roaring in his ears, it took everything Tony had not to scream. But eventually, Steve exhaled shallowly, and nodded once. 

“Okay,” He whispered. “Okay, Tony, okay.” 

“Just go,” Tony countered, shoulders slumping as he felt the fight finally leave him. God, he couldn’t remember the last time he felt this ripped open and raw, the terror and fury fading away and leaving nothing but dull and throbbing exhaustion in its wake. 

“Okay,” Steve agreed once more before turning away. Tony didn’t bother to watch him leave, and instead just collapsed into one of the waiting room chairs, listening as Steve pushed the door open. “You know,” He heard the man call back to him, “That kid is really lucky.”

“Lucky?!” Tony spat incredulously, whipping around to once more glare daggers at the man, who met his gaze evenly. “He has a fucking bullet hole in him, Rogers! Because of you! God dammit, the kid’s in surgery right now and you still haven’t even acknowledged that this whole thing is on you! Who the fuck do you think you are telling me that my kid is lucky? You have no idea what’s happening in there, what’s going to happen to him, or even if he’s going to make it or not. So don’t you dare tell me that the kid’s lucky when you don’t know shit.”

“Yeah, Tony, there’s a lot I don’t know,” Steve says with a shrug. “Anymore, I don’t think I know jack about anything. But what I do know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is that that kid is damn lucky to have you watching out for him. Just like you’re lucky to have him.” 

And with that, Tony was finally left alone with only his own torturous thoughts and the fucking clock that would undoubtedly be the reason he finally lost his goddamn mind. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before the surgery center doors swung open and Helen Cho poked her head out, frowning.

“Why do I hear yelling?" She demanded, glaring at him.

"Probably because two assholes were yelling in here a second ago." He snapped back. “Congratulations, your ears work.”

"This is a medical wing, Mr. Stark.” She reminded sternly, still glaring at him. 

“A medical wing that I paid for, if I remember right.”

“And we’re all extremely grateful for that.” She assures him, though there’s a hint of sarcasm to her tone. “But I’d be even more grateful if you would let my patients rest.”

“The only other person here is some Redshirt with a broken ankle-”

“And your protege.” She interrupts. “So if you care about him even half as much as you pretend not to, then you'll act like a responsible, courteous adult and shut your damn mouth." 

It takes everything Tony has not so snarl at her, but instead he merely nods, tightly. Helen regarded him quietly for a moment, and then continued, far more gently this time. “We’ve just finished up. We’re going to move him to a recovery ward in just a minute, if you want to see him real quick.”

“Is he okay?” Tony asks quietly as he follows her through the surgical wing doors and down the hall to one of the operating suites.

“He did great,” Helen assures him. “The bullet didn’t fragment, so it was just a matter of removing it and cleaning up the collateral damage. His kidneys were bruised from the impact, but luckily for him, it didn’t hit anything too important. He’s gonna be fine.” 

Tony just nodded, not trusting himself to speak, as Helen gestured at Peter’s room. “He’s in there,” She told him. “He was awake a second ago, but we’ve got him on some pretty heavy painkillers, so he’s probably pretty out of it.” She glanced briefly at Tony before she continued. “Go easy on him, Tony. I think he’s been through enough for one day, don’t you?” 

Tony shot her a glare. Yelling at Peter of all people hadn’t even crossed his mind. Anyone and everyone else, however, was fair game as far as he was concerned. Without bothering to answer Helen, he stepped into the dimly lit room, stopping almost immediately at the sight before him. 

Peter was sleeping peacefully beneath a mound of scratchy, white hospital blankets, all evidence of injury tucked neatly away and out of sight, though a few tubes and wires snaked their way discreetly through the folds of fabric to the various machines that surround him. Tony watches the heart monitor as it beeps steadily nearby, and then starts when he catches sight of a clear bag of bloody urine hanging underneath the bed. He doesn’t think he was supposed to see that. He wishes he hadn’t. 

So he looks away, and in the far corner, Tony can make out the paper and plastic wrappings that had held sterilized medical equipment just hours before, ripped open and curling under coiled bits of black silk stitching. There are flecks of blood on the floor trailing from Peter’s bedside to the rolling table in the corner, where perched among the wrappings and stitching is a silver emesis bowl slick with blood and containing what Tony can only imagine is the single bullet responsible for this whole mess. He stared hatefully at it for a moment, wavering between throwing it down the garbage disposal and using his wrist gauntlet to blast the thing to kingdom come, before turning away to finally look back at Peter.

He looks like hell. He’s pale and sweaty, hair hanging limply in his face, and Tony barely recognizes him. Without even realizing what he’s doing, he reaches out and quickly pushes a stray curl back in place, hoping it will help, but the second he does, Peter’s lashes flutter and he shifts slightly on the bed. And before Tony can even cringe about what he’s done, the kid’s suddenly smiling up at him, like there was nothing even remotely wrong. 

“Hey,” He mutters, and the stupid smile that fills his entire face is enough to make Tony want to put his fist through the wall, “You’re here.” 

“Yeah, kid. Last I checked I do own the place.” He says, looking away. He can’t look at the kid. Not here, not like this. And especially when this is as much his fault as Cap’s. Instead, he chooses to focus on the heart monitor again, watching the red line tracing out Peter’s heartbeat as though it’s the only thing in the room worthy of his attention. “You know who shouldn’t be here though? I’ll give you a hint - you.” 

You’re not gon' yell at me are you?” Peter’s eyes have slipped closed, and a quick glance at the IV bag taped to his hand lets Tony relax marginally. He’s honestly surprised that Cap’s painkillers are even touching the kid, since they figured out a while ago that his metabolism is almost twice as fast as Steve’s, but hey. Thank heaven for little mercies and all.

“No, I’m not gonna yell at you. If I’m gonna waste my breath, you may as well remember it.” He tells him with a sigh, pulling the rolling stool to the bedside and sinking down into it. Peter’s lips quirk even though his eyes stay shut. 

“Cool,” He breathes, and, rolling his eyes, Tony vows to kill the kid the second Helen says he’s fully recovered.

“You can’t keep doing this, kid.” He tells him.

“Firs’ time, Mis’r Stark.” 

“I meant you doing stupid shit and getting hurt because of it, not just getting shot.” He tells him. “But since you brought it up, you can bet your glowing, radioactive ass that this ain’t happening again, kid. Cause knowing you, the next time you have the chance to jump in front of a bullet, you will.”

“Hmmm,” Peter hums. “You don’ know tha’.” 

Not that he’d ever admit it, but no, he doesn’t know that. Not for sure, anyway, and that’s the problem - there’s too many variables to promise such a thing. But if Tony had to bet money on it, he’d bet everything he owned that eventually, at some point, Peter would get shot again. It was hardly a matter of if it was going to happen again, but a matter of when it was going to happen again. And the next time it did, Peter might throw himself in front of a bullet deliberately or he might not be quick enough to dodge one. He may get lucky again and have it miss anything important or he may not. And the thing that terrifies Tony the most is that there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it, no matter what he does to try and prevent it from happening again. He can’t predict everything. He sure as hell can’t control Peter. But most of all, he can’t promise that he can put the kid back together again the next time it happens.

“Is Cap mad at me?” Peter asks next, of all things, and Tony blinks himself back to reality.

“What?” He asks, staring down at the kid incredulously. “No. Why on earth would he be mad at you?”

“‘Cause I screwed up.” Peter slurs. “And he’s not here.”

“He’s not here because I told him to stay the fuck away from you.” Tony tells him. “Not because you did anything wrong.”

Peter forces his eyes open and gazes up at Tony with so much confusion that if the situation was different, it would be hysterical. “Why?”

“‘Cause if it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t be here.” Tony answers, and even he’s shocked by the sheer honesty he allows his kid just this once. God, he hopes with all the morphine pumping through the kid he doesn’t remember a word of this. “He doesn’t deserve you, kid. None of us do, but especially not him. After everything he did in Germany...and everything he said after…”

Peter stares up at him, frowning. “He didn’t ask me to take the bullet for him, Tony.” 

Tony blinks hard, willing the tears that have formed to dissolve. “I know.” He assures him. “It doesn’t make it any easier, though.” 

Peter hums again, and lets his eyes fall closed. Tony hesitates for a moment, but decides to take the opportunity to rest his hand on the crown of Peter’s head, fingers burrowing through his sweaty curls. He’s really, really hoping Peter doesn’t remember anything by tomorrow. 

“M’ss’r Stark?” He mumbles again.

“Yeah, bud?” 

“Are you sad because I took a bullet for Cap and not you?” He asked. Tony stares at him, horror slowly dawning on him.

"What?" He manages to snap. "No. Peter. I don't want you to take a bullet for anyone. Least of all me. Okay? I mean it, kid, I'm not worth it."

Peter doesn't answer for a minute. He just lies there blinking owlishly at a spot on the wall somewhere behind Tony's shoulder. He doubts the kid is listening. Hell, he doesn't listen to him when he's sober. But the kid surprises him again when he suddenly speaks.

"You are." He mumbles.

“I'm what, squirt?"

"Worth it." He whispers, and Peter's head lolls around so that he can focus his glazed eyes on Tony. "I'd take all the bullets for you, Mr. Stark," He slurs as his eyes flutter closed. “I’d pick you ov’r Cap anyday, don’ worry. You’re my fav’rite.” 

The lump that forms in his throat is as sudden as it is unexpected. One second non-existent and very, very much present the next. He knows he should say something sarcastic and mean to make Peter think he doesn't care, but instead , before he has time to think about what he’s doing, leans forward and presses a kiss against Peter’s forehead. The kid doesn’t even stir, and Tony thinks if he’s not already asleep, he’s about to be. 

“I need you to listen to me, kid,” He whispers urgently in his ear. “This isn’t going to ever happen again. You hear me? This is the first and last time you ever get shot.” It’s total bullshit, and if Peter were conscious, he’s sure the kid would call him out. “You don’t get to take bullets for me or anyone else, understand? I know you would. I know you would without even thinking about it and you would do it so goddamn happily that it makes me sick. And I know you’d do it again and again, no matter how many times we let you down. Because you’re just that good. But you don’t get to do that to me, kid. I owe you so much, already.”

Peter’s breaths are deep and even, and Tony’s sure he’s sleeping now. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against Peter’s as he continues.

“I meant it, Pete. None of us deserve you. Not Cap. Not Fury. But especially not me. I’m so sorry I dragged you into this, Pete. I swear I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to make that up to you, I promise. So please. Please don’t bring bullets into it.” He pleads again. “‘Cause I’d take them all for you too, kid, but it still wouldn’t be enough. Please. Please don’t bring bullets into it. Please don't make me lose you.” 

Peter doesn’t move, and Tony doesn’t expect him to. He continues to sleep, his chest rising and falling gently and peacefully, and for a minute, Tony can ignore the fact that they’re in the medbay and there’s bits of Peter’s blood spattered across the room and a bullet that was buried in him not even an hour ago is now sitting innocuously on the table in the corner. He can pretend Peter’s sleeping because he’s fifteen and exhausted from school and exams and decathlon and not drugged to the gills with superhero morphine. He can pretend he never dragged the kid into all this, or that this is all Cap’s fault, and if he had been the one to train Peter, none of this would have happened. He can pretend it’s just beads of sweat that’s running down his nose and falling into Peter’s hair and nothing else. He can pretend all he wants, now that Peter’s asleep and there’s no one here to tell him otherwise.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. I have a few more ideas for some stories I want to write, and it will probably turn into a series. The next story I have in mind is already half written and is going to follow up immediately after this one. No promises when it will be up though. I can already tell it's going to be a bitch to edit. 
> 
> As always, comments are appreciated. 
> 
> Thanks!


End file.
